


Then There Was Something

by frostbitter



Series: Trying Times [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I imagine smut will be coming up soon, John is confused, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock gets brazen when drunk, Sherlock is confused, lots of sexuality uncertainty in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2365391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostbitter/pseuds/frostbitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson becomes even more of a mystery to Sherlock when he kills a man for the high functioning sociopath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then There Was Something

_Then There Was Something_

 

He’s been living with Sherlock for nearly a week now, so the detective’s abrupt departures have become something he’s used to. But that doesn’t make John any less worried.

Right now, he’s very worried, indeed. Right in the middle of a drug’s bust, right as Lestrade is yelling at Sherlock while Sherlock is yelling at Anderson, with Sally Donovan sneering in the background and John desperately tapping away at the laptop, trying to find the killer, when suddenly, the location finally zeros in on…

“Sherlock,” John says, eyes squinting at the screen. He reads it twice. Then once more. “Sherlock, it says the phone is her-” he turns to find the man rushing outside, declaring a sudden need for fresh air.

Sherlock may be a complex man, full of many layers, but if there’s one thing John’s learned about him, it’s that he wouldn’t go outside for air if he wanted to think. He goes to nicotine patches to think.

With a sigh, John rose to his feet and ushered everyone out of his flat, ignoring the knowing look Donovan gave him.

“Told you he was a freak,” she says as she crosses the threshold.

A twitch of his jaw is all that she gets before he slammed the door in her face.

 

**++++**

The force of the gunshot shattered the entire window, glass shards splattering the front of his body and his boots. The gun slide back into his waistband, resting against his back, as John jumped away from the window.

His heart is pounding, the thumps of a frantic beat playing like a song in his ears. He turned and raced out of the building, down the steps and around the corner as the sirens begin to blaze in the distance.

John’s three streets away before he finally slowed to a stop and kneeled over, breathing hard. He didn’t think to bring a bottle of water with him; of course, there hadn’t been enough time. He was already about to head out and look for Sherlock when the laptop beeped, announcing the acquired signal of the pink lady’s mobile phone. John only had enough time to grab his gun, note down the location and rush out the door.

He found himself in the wrong building, searching every hall and room until he was panting hard, coming up empty handed, voice hoarse from screaming Sherlock’s name.

Through the tall windows, into the opposite building, he caught sight of the back of a tall man with dark curls and a shorter, old man. He sprang forward, hands on the glass, pounding uselessly and yelling Sherlock’s name. The detective didn’t turn around, nor did the cabbie meet his gaze; John was too far away to be heard. He was useless, only able to observe, unable to intervene. But he had a clear view of everything.

The look on Jefferson Hope’s face was something he would never forget. Eyes bright, lips curled in a grin, holding the pill out, taunting, daring Sherlock to take the pill. He saw Sherlock’s arm raise, saw the gloating in the cabbie’s expression, his hand lowering, allowing Sherlock to go first, to swallow first, to die first, for he _had_ to have had the bad pill.

“Sherlock,” John said aloud, nails scratching at the glass as his hands balled into fists. “Sherlock, put the pill down. Put the _fucking_ pill down.”

Hope raised the pill in a mock toast and their hands slowly started to raise towards their mouths.

“Sherlock Holmes- SHERLOCK!” John’s fist smashed against the window in a weak attempt to stop him; the fool couldn’t hear him, of course he couldn’t. He was still bringing the pill up towards his mouth.

The pill barely grazed his lips before the gunshot pierced the air, z bullet burying itself into Hope’s chest. John stood there for a second, a brief second, to make sure that Sherlock had dropped the pill and was not going to swallow in while he wasn’t looking, then he took off.

John straightened up, his breaths returning back to their normal pace. He knew, as a doctor, that his heartbeats would not return back to _their_ normal pace for a while, but that could easily be explained. He withdrew the gun from behind his back, slid it under the waistband of the front of his trousers, beside his hip, so the flaps of his coat covered it.

Then he started jogging.

 

**++++**

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, so a strong moral principle. You're looking for a man, probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel-” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as his gaze panned the room, like it usually does, landing on John’s face. He was standing off to the side, out of the chaos, hands locking behind his back and looking around. Slowly, his head turned to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

Realization was quick to hit him and he immediately stopped talking. “Actually you know what. Ignore me.”

“Sorry?” Lestrade asked, clearly confused.

“Ignore all of that. It's just the…” Sherlock trailed off again, tearing his gaze away from that knowing look John was giving him, turning to Lestrade and absentmindedly waving a hand. “Just the shock talking.” With a nod, he started to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Lestrade asked, quickly stopping him.

“I just need to talk about the man,” Sherlock mumbled. His response made no sense; this was evident to Lestrade as he furrowed his brows.

“I still have questions.”

“Oh, what now?” Sherlock groaned, reaching up to clutch the ends of the cloth on his back. “I'm in shock – look, I've got a blanket!”

“Sherlock-” Lestrade began but was cut off.

“ _And_ I just caught you a serial killer. More or less,” Sherlock finished with a shrug, sparing a glance backwards at the building, where the body of the old cabbie driver remained, lying in a puddle of his own blood.

Lestrade studied his face silently for a moment, before nodding. “Okay, we'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

Sherlock shoved off without a single response back, eyes focused on the doctor. He hadn’t even known the man for two days and already John had killed for him? For _him_? Obviously the man had waited until Sherlock was in immediate danger, but still, John had killed for him. Killing a man isn’t the easiest thing, but John did it so quickly, with such certainty; he was gone before Sherlock could even turn around.

Sherlock knew that he had to pretend that some hit man had taken the cabbie out, but he couldn’t keep the façade up around John. They both knew it was him who pulled the trigger. They both knew he would do it again without a single thought.

John watched as Sherlock ducked beneath the police tape and tossed his blanket into the open window of a police car, then spoke. “Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything. Two pills?” he questioned, then shook his head in disbelief. “Dreadful business, isn’t it? Dreadful.”

“Good shot,” Sherlock said softly, praising John. It was something different, praising someone. It made John’s eyes light up, ever so slightly.

But still he blinked, feigning confusion. “Yes, yes, must have been through that window.”

“Well, you would know,” Sherlock said, a light smirk to his tone. “Did you get the powder burn off of your fingers?  I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.”

John smiled and let his shoulders rise in a minor shrug, letting Sherlock know that he was okay with that.

 

The two men made their way up the stairs, finally, around midnight, bags of Chinese takeout in their hands. They had just managed to slip away from Mrs. Hudson, who'd been in tears and cradled Sherlock’s head to her chest. The sight of his dark curls against her bosom had John hunched over, arms to his stomach as he chortled.

The look Sherlock gave him promised to kill him with his own chopsticks.

When they finally collapsed in their armchairs, John withdrew a gun from behind his back and set it beside him, then hungrily dug out one of the Styrofoam containers and opened it.

Sherlock nodded towards the gun. “Is that it, then?”

After swallowing a mouthful of orange chicken, John turned to see what he was referring to. “Oh. Yeah, that’s it.”

Sherlock neatly twirled chow mien around his chopsticks and slide them into his mouth. He chewed quickly, thoughtful eyes on the Sig, swallowing so he could speak. “Why’d you do it?”

John glanced at it, then at Sherlock, a silvery-blonde brow quirked. “To keep you alive, of course,” he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a bite of the egg roll. “You make it look so easy,” he retorted with his mouth full.

John stared at him quietly for a moment, then leaned forward. “I’ve seen many people die; good people, friends, soldiers, comrades. I still have nightmares from the memories. But I assure you, I won’t lose any sleep over this death.”

“But-”

“Sherlock, he was going to _kill_ you. You’re a bloody idiot who’ll risk his life to prove he’s clever, regardless of the chance, regardless of whether he’ll lose or not. You may be willing to play that game, but I wasn’t.” John moved back against the armchair, lifting a glass of water to his lips to take a drink.

A lump formed in Sherlock’s throat. “You care.”

“Yes, of course I care,” John rolled his eyes, tone exasperated, a normal occurrence around Sherlock these days. “You’re my friend, you git.”

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, then leans across the distance to steals one of John’s sushi rolls. “I would’ve chosen the right pill, had you given me five minutes-”

A pack of soy sauce hits him in the forehead and his lips tilt up into a grin.

 

**++++**

His lips fade back into a frown.

_There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms._

_Yes, of course we’ll be needing two._

Sherlock’s slender fingers fold underneath his head, tangling in his hair as he lies on his bed, gaze fixated on the ceiling. He watched the fan swivel around, John’s words echoing in his mind.

_I’m not his date._

Sherlock turned to rest on his side, his eyes closed. He attempted to count sheep but found the process to be redundant and useless; it doesn’t work. He’s awake. Too awake.

_You don’t have a girlfriend, then?_

_Girlfriend? No, not really my area._

Unconsciously, his teeth grit. Memories build up against the walls he encased them in, shoving them in the farthest corner of his mind palace, keeping them put away so he never has to relive them. Hoping they’d go away with time, but it’s been over twenty years and they’re still there, hovering in the depths of his brain. Threatening to overpower him at moments when he’s weak, alone, tired. As of right now, he’s all three.

Sherlock carefully took a deep breath and shoved them as far back as he can. Bits and pieces slip through and assault him – a flash of rays dancing off the surface of light blonde hair, a glimpse of melting chocolate, the ghost of a hand on the low of his back.

The wall slams in place and Sherlock slumps against the mattress, his heartbeat in his ears.

_Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine by the way._

_I know it’s fine._

“It’s perfectly fine,” he muttered to himself, then pressed his face into his pillow. It smelled vaguely like cologne and cigarettes. The scent made his head throb with a longing for a smoke.

_I’m not his date._

Sherlock’s mind still couldn’t process the past few days, which, if spoken aloud, would shock everyone, including himself. But that was John Watson for you. Deducing him was easy, as always. Before the first night, Sherlock could tell that John suffered from nightmares, due to the bags under his eyes, the slouch of his steps, the lack of moisture in his eyes and the way he blinked twice as much as the normal human being to keep his eyelids from drooping. His suspicions were confirmed when he woke up to use the restroom around midnight and heard John thrashing about in his sleep.

He’d stopped by the cracked door and peeked in, torn between leaving and tentatively going inside to comfort John, when he awoke with a loud gasp. Sherlock quickly left, making it look like John had been alone all this time.

The simple things were easy to figure out. John’s preference of music, his clothing style, how he likes his tea, the precise order in which he shaves. Sherlock was able to figure all of that out by a day living with the man. His motives, however, were far beyond his comprehending.

John killed a man for him. Why? To save him, because he cared about Sherlock, of course, but what was his _real_ motive? Having a gun and killing the serial killer to save the victim was something anyone would do if given the chance; that didn’t count. There had to have been a different motive for John to pull the trigger. He couldn’t have saved Sherlock just because it was the right thing to do.

Sherlock had been mulling over that since he came to the realization that John had shot and killed Jefferson Hope.

_I’m not his date._

John cared. He said Sherlock was his friend. He told Sherlock that straight to his face.

He thought back to his childhood. He had no friends. Compassion was a human weakness. John was a prime example of this, willing to risk his freedom in order to keep Sherlock alive – and he’d only known him for a few days.

John cared.

_I’m not his date._

It didn’t make any sense.

Sherlock rolled on his back and covered his face with his long fingers, groaning. Then he peeked through them to check the time. It was only 10:34 p.m. Normally, at this time on a Friday, he would be at the pub, dancing and drinking the night away until he either went to some stranger’s house or they came to his. Rarely did he ever spend a full night, alone, in his flat, but ever since John moved in, he couldn’t very well sneak off every night…

Sherlock slowly slid his hands off his face and stayed there for a moment, then sat up and silently began to take his robe off.

 

**++++**

“Where are you off to?”

The hand gripping the doorknob tightened. A low sigh slid through Sherlock’s teeth, laced with _shit._

He turned around to see John standing there, still fully dressed. His eyes were wide open, but Sherlock could see the red in them. Another nightmare, more than likely. He wondered how he didn’t hear John this time. From the looks of his rugged appearance, he must have fallen asleep on the couch.

“A walk.”

“Don’t lie to me,” John snapped.

Sherlock blinked twice, then coolly tilted his head. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

“You never go out for walks. It isn’t your thing,” John moved by Sherlock to grab his coat.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going with you.”

“It’s late and you’re tired.”

John straightened the flaps of his coat out and rolled his shoulders back, then glared at Sherlock. “I could say the same for you.”

“I’m wide awake,” Sherlock argued.

John rolled his eyes and yanked the door open.

 

**++++**

“You know, when most people go for a walk, they usually mean around the block, not three blocks away from their home on a dark and cold and very late November evening,” John said after a few minutes of silence.

Sherlock slid his hands into his trench coat pockets and pressed his arms close to his sides. John was right about the cold; he was freezing. He’d planned on hailing a taxi, until John decided to tag along.

“That would be because we aren’t going home,” he said.

John turned to look at the detective, then furrowed his brows. “You said-”

“I said I was going for a walk. I never said I was going to come back.”

“Then,” John slid his hand out of his pocket to check his watch. “Where could we possibly be going at nearly midnight?”

They rounded the corner and Sherlock caught sight of a familiar neon green sign. A smile touched his lips.

“We, John Watson, are going to a nightclub.”

Sherlock continued to march down the street, his stride changing. Just moments ago, he was tense, rushed, huddling into himself due to the cold breeze. Now he’s standing tall, head held high and shoulders squared, gaze locked on the club’s doors. John sees what he can only describe as longing in Sherlock’s eyes.

He’s been here before.

“A nightclub?” John repeated, moving quickly to catch up with the long-legged detective.

Normally, Sherlock would’ve taken the opportunity to belittle John, but instead he nodded absentmindedly.

“You said you were going for a walk, not going to a nightclub.”

“This is a walk.”

“You would have taken a cab.”

“I was planning to until you tagged along.”

John’s fists clench. “Then why did you bloody lie?” he growled.

They arrive at the doors. Sherlock slid his wallet out of his back pocket and thumbed out a few notes, then handed them to the bouncer.

John made to take out his wallet, but was stopped with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got it. And because I wanted you to come,” Sherlock said quietly, then turned and made his way into the club.

John blinked, then turned to see the bouncer staring at him. Hand rubbing the spot that Sherlock touched, he quickly moved to catch up.

 

**++++**

Sherlock was a regular, clearly. They made their way to the bar and the bartender slid over a mug of beer. Sherlock wrapped his hands around it and raised it to his lips, his other hand holding up a finger. The bartender slid another mug over to John and he fingered it lightly, watching Sherlock.

The atmosphere was akin to a crime scene in the way it affected Sherlock. A flush was rising in his cheeks and it wasn’t from the alcohol; it showed up the moment they walked inside and the heat of a hundred twisting bodies engulfed them. His green eyes got brighter, if that was even possible.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” John said.

Without taking his eyes off the dance floor, Sherlock’s lips tilt up into a smile. “Not that well, unfortunately, but it is fun.”

“I thought you didn’t like fun,” the words come out before he can think them through and John tightens his lips, internally groaning at himself for being so blunt.

Sherlock’s lips also tighten. Half a song passes before he takes another drink and tears his eyes away to look at John. His voice is serious when he says, “You thought wrong.”

After a few minutes of having the beverage in their hands, Sherlock had finished his off. People were writhing and gliding and sliding against each other. Loud bass and bright neon lights danced off the walls, reflecting in his eyes. John watched as Sherlock stood up. His trench coat was gone, somewhere John didn’t know, the cuffs of Sherlock’s shirt loose, the top button undone.

Without another word to John, he disappeared into the crowd.

John frowned. What was he to do now? He enjoyed dancing, but hadn’t been to a club since his early twenties. He feared he wouldn’t remember how to dance. He considered going after Sherlock, to learn by observing, but a thought occurred to him: who was Sherlock dancing with? He couldn’t see the detective over the mass of people, but he was in there, entangling with someone with the beat of a song dancing with the beat of his heart.

John swiveled around the bar stool and placed the mug on the counter.

“Another, mate?”

“Yes.”

“Make that two.”

Baritone rang in his ears as he turned back around. Sherlock was standing beside him, a hand on the counter. Sweat coated his light gray shirt and John’s eyes examined it for a second before moving back to his face. His eyes were blazing, smiling at John in a way he couldn’t quite decipher.

“Looking to get drunk?” John asked.

Sherlock took a large gulp of his replenished glass, then leaned closer to John. “That’s the plan.”

“Don’t expect me to carry you home.”

“Oh, Captain Watson,” Sherlock said, his lips tilted into a wolfish grin. “That’s also part of the plan.”


End file.
